Chapter Fifty-Two
QUINCY
Massachusetts
I dreamed of Russia.
In that faraway land of ice, the Winter Palace rose up in gilded splendor, bathing the magnificent square in a pale golden
glow. I saw the bronze equestrian statue of Peter the Great mounted atop his rearing steed, facing the bridge of boats crossing
the Neva River and its granite-sided quay. I heard the jingling sleighs, the laughter of fur-bundled children sledding down
the ice hills, and the clip-clop of horses drawing magnificent carriages past numerous whirligigs and swings.
That is how vivid a picture John Quincy painted for me in his letters—letters that I treasured, though they took an unbearably long time to reach us.
Still, I lived for the thick packets my son sent with detailed descriptions of opulent court life.
Just as preciously longed for was Nabby’s familiar script, detailing her frontier travails making lye soap, or restoring their
log cabin after the flooding of the river left mud on the floors and dampness upon the firewood.
I missed her desperately and looked forward to her visit, though not its cause. For my daughter wrote that she’d discovered
a lump in her breast, and better care for it could be sought here with us in Boston than in the wilderness of New York.
“They don’t think it cancerous, do they?” Tommy asked upon hearing the news.
“They don’t think so,” I said to reassure him and my husband both. “But Colonel Smith thinks it might be best to bring it to the surface.”
“Is he a doctor now?” John snapped.
“He might have some battlefield experience with wounds and other ailments,” Tommy said, patiently.
Of our children, Tommy was the last who still remained near to us. Though, as a married man of thirty-eight years, with children
of his own, he wanted to be out from under his father’s roof. So when Phoebe’s husband died and she was unable to live by
herself in the old saltbox in Braintree, Tommy leaped at the opportunity to move there and look after her.
The move had been good for him. He was now serving as a judge on the Massachusetts General Court while holding office in Quincy
as both town treasurer and supervisor of schools. And having impressed people with that good service, he’d recently been appointed
by the governor to help mediate some violence in Lincoln County over land rights.
At learning this, John teased, “My sons the diplomats. Johnny drew Russia and you drew Lincoln County—both frigid tundras
overrun by drunk barbarians.”
“John,” I warned.
But my husband was altogether too amused with himself. “Pshaw! While John Quincy negotiates treaties in the ornate halls of
Saint Petersburg, Tommy will be slogging through mud, judging whether a farmer’s blueberry bush has grown on the wrong side
of the property line. It’s just the same but with less caviar.”
“John,” I said again.
Tommy laughed the way he always laughed when teased. He loved and revered his older brother. He rarely showed jealousy, pettiness,
or resentment for Johnny’s success. But I’d started to notice the flash of pain in Tommy’s eyes when he allowed John to make
sport of him by way of comparison. The same pain I’d seen when he was just a boy, crying that his father didn’t love him as
much as his siblings. And I wished my husband would be more sensitive to it!
Thankfully, Nabby would soon be with us. She’d always had a softening influence on her father and bolstered the confidence of her brothers. Our spirits would all be lifted when gathered together.
At seventy-seven years old, Uncle Tufts was enjoying a dignified retirement and no longer made house calls. The best of his
doctoring days were behind him. But for me, he’d grabbed his old doctor’s bag and had a servant carry him by carriage to Quincy
straightaway.
“We’re so grateful for your coming,” I said, helping him shuffle into the entryway.
Straightening his old spine, he asked, “Nabby is upstairs?”
I nodded, for though my daughter had arrived for a visit looking in perfectly good health, I was alarmed by the reddened, misshapened sight of her breast when she revealed it to me.
The doctors she’d consulted near her home on the frontier advised her that because the lump was movable, it could not be cancerous.
But when I confided this to Dr. Tufts, he did not agree and came swiftly to examine her—as indelicate a matter as that was
between kin.
Upstairs we found Nabby seated at the edge of the bed, forcing a smile. “Am I too old now for the comfort of candied oranges,
Dr. Tufts?”
“For you, my dear, I brought a pocket full.”
Touched, I said, “I’ll leave you both to it.”
Quietly, I closed the door, shooed away curious grandchildren, and joined my husband where he paced by the fire. Other fathers
might’ve shied away from the indelicacy of a woman’s ailment, but John wanted to know everything. “Is it cancer? Must it come
to the surface?”
“The doctor has just arrived, John. Let him do his work.”
When Uncle Tufts finally came back downstairs, his report was grim. “I cannot be entirely sure if it is cancer without cutting,
but my years of experience lead me to believe we must remove the breast to save her life.”
The breath hissed out of me, and I dropped down hard upon the settee. “Is there no other way? Surely there must be some medicine.
Nabby mentioned the possibility of arsenic pills . . .”
“I’ve read about that,” he said. “Benjamin Rush mentions it in one of his volumes, but I know too little about it.”
“I’ve already written to Dr. Rush,” John said, offering that man’s reply for our doctor’s perusal. “He says internal medicines
won’t help. Like you, he believes only surgery can save her.”
I caught a glimpse of the letter, which read, in part, “Let there be no delay in flying to the knife. If she waits it may
be too late.”
Dear frail Cotton Tufts was apologetic when he spoke. “I’m now too old and blind to perform the surgery, but I’ll find the
finest surgeon in Boston if Nabby consents.”
I groaned, pressing my palms to my eyes, wondering how we could possibly break this news to our daughter.
In the end, John couldn’t bear to tell her.
The task was left to me.
“My darling,” I said, softly, as if she were a very little girl and not a mother of three. “Your life is at stake.”
“But no guarantee can be made that surgery will save me,” Nabby replied. “How can I submit to such a painful trial knowing
that I might lose my life anyway?”
I gripped her hand and pulled it against my heart, tracing the little scar where I’d persuaded her to let a doctor cut her
once before. “You must take the risk. Just as with the smallpox inoculation all those years ago. Please do this for the husband
and children you love. And for the parents who have loved you every moment since you came into this world.”
The surgery would not wait for Colonel Smith to arrive. And Nabby said stoically, “It’s better this way. If I live through
it, then my husband will be spared seeing this done to me. If I die, then he’ll only suffer the grief of my passing without
the agony of witnessing my mutilation.”
But I would not be spared, for I had promised my daughter to be with her every moment. And I saw to the preparations for Nabby’s
surgery myself, piling her bed high with pillows, collecting every spare scrap of cloth for bandaging, throwing back the drapery,
and amassing candles upon every surface to help the surgeon see.
Then I cleared a large table for the instruments.
I tried not to shudder as I pushed the reclining chair in which my daughter would be strapped nearer to the fire so they could cauterize the wound with a burning iron.
I shuddered, wondering how John and I could possibly bear witness to this. But I couldn’t let our child face it alone. Just
as I had promised her as a child, I would be with her, whatever might come.
“You’re in the best possible hands,” I told her as we made ready, brushing her beautiful auburn hair before giving it over
to Sally to pin up away from her neck. “The surgeon will rid you of this illness and you’ll see your own children grow old.”
It’s what I needed to believe as I helped her pick a dress to wear—one she could spare, since it would no doubt be stained
with blood. But Nabby insisted upon her best church dress. “I must be garbed properly in case I’m soon to meet the Lord.”
The doctor, his son, and assistants arrived in their frock coats and cravats, unpacking the needle-sharp fork, the glinting
slicing knives, and grim-looking iron cauterizing spatula.
Seeing them, I was all atremble as I led my girl to the chair where she was to be bound. One of the doctor’s assistants knelt
to tighten and fasten a belt around each of my daughter’s ankles. Another at each knee. Her waist and right arm. Only the
left arm would remain free so it could be lifted to give access to the blade.
I watched them bind her with such mounting horror that when the doctor’s assistant finally reached to unfasten Nabby’s gown,
I snapped, “No.”
Everyone turned to look at me—even Nabby—and at shame for my weakness, I made an excuse. “My daughter’s virtue quails under
this unwanted familiarity. Please let me undress her.”
The doctor and his assistants withdrew a few paces, and I stepped toward Nabby, forcing an encouraging smile. Gently—so gently!—I
removed the modest muslin fichu from round her neck. I kissed her head, then worked the delicate buttons at the back of her
gown with its cheerful pattern of rosebuds and sprigs. A pattern I knew I would never look upon again without the memory of
this monstrous moment.
At long last, I bared her breast and shoulder. And if Nabby’s glassy eyes were any indication, already the laudanum was working on her.
I only wished it to work faster.
The surgeon said, “Forgive me, Mrs. Smith, but I must straddle your knees to get the best position for cutting.”
His demeanor was as professional as possible. Nevertheless, the sight of a man climbing atop his daughter caused John’s jaw